


and the universe said I love you.

by z3ybep



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesiac Ghost Wilbur Soot, Angst, Dreamon, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Found Family, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, No Romance, Possible Character Death, Twins Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, War, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, not really - Freeform, post exile, what do i tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29402025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/z3ybep/pseuds/z3ybep
Summary: "Don't you see what's happening here?" The plea of a ruthless killer, "Don't you see history repeating itself?"The dead man laughed from his grave that was the soothing arms of the remainings of his father, the dead man laughed from his grave that was the cold steel of his heart finally giving up, the rest of the living cried in the dreadful end that neared, and-"Thus," cried the empty vessels of souls that once kneeled before satan itself, "always to tyrants."The puppeteer laughed.And the universe said I love you.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. opening

Earth bent under the touch of dozens of sinful steps, ungripped, disconnected; he ordered the soil to give in and the dozens of sinful steps, unfiltered, evil, fell on the ground one by one but all at once.

Earth bent under the weight of a handful of puppets and their proud puppeteer, echoes of centuries of knowledges' power, voices and whispers that equipped certain minds of steel and stone, pushing through every mental barrier and late nights of whimpers and pleas of the end of everything. Pushing through whatever was left of sanity and swallowed every last bit of prudence. 

Gladly, the puppeteer would snarl, echoes of the suffocating silence left afterwards would echo off the earth's crust and bounce off of the black walls surrounding everything ever in sight. Gladly, the puppeteer would cheer the broken pieces of stability he managed to still find here And there, day by day, a wave of purple colored corruption washing over the remains of the civilization that once roamed under the "free" minds of many.

Earth bent under the touch of a caring father, or it was what it felt like, the young boy would confess years later; smiling with blood trickling down his chin, helpless as a newborn baby but conscious as the god himself. God forbid, would say the oh so caring father, choking death off of his lungs for the boy to catch by the teeth. God forbid, something happens to my poor, poor boy.

Gladly, the puppeteer would clap along the last show on the curtain for a good decade, remainings of silver and brown hair mixed on the ground, the scent of burnt wood carving its way to anyone standing close enough to watch the masquerade of a new start play its little game to unknowing children. Gladly, smithereens standing before golden doors of useless hope, useless determination; nations and nations of distrust and tyranny, and the earth-

The earth bent under the ungrateful. The earth, bent under the tyrant. The earth, bent under the boy, caring but unfazed, armored but defenseless, loud but everything ate him up alive one by one. Orphan, but his so called father stood tall only steps before him, cradling the body of a dead brother that he no longer recognized, who once had a name- what was it, before the rain came and washed everything away? 

Another so-called brother would stand before him, crown cradling carvings of skulls, black as the night sky and evil as the daylight. Gown pearling the blood of his own mind, dripping, wincing, mirrors of a shattered nation glistening in a blind eye right before wind swept the rest away with the awful stench of blood oozing off of the fresh autumn air. 

The puppeteer would laugh, on days like this. It happened quite often, to the surprise of whoever was watching everything build back up from nothing to somehow, end in even much more nothing. A huge crater. The puppeteer laughed on days like this as it happened quite frequently that he had expected from his stupid, naive little puppets.

And the earth, bent under their feet as the broken man of broken promises rose from the ground for the last time, crown long lost in the fight of ignorance, ignorance of an disrespected tyrant and the ignorance of a long lost king -a revolutioner, he might have called himself some time ago. The earth boiled in the pain and agony of lives long lost as the puppeteer pulled on the strings for a final time in very long to make all his possessions stand all tall and right before their equally ignorant end nearing.

Another tyrant rose from where the other lost the fight; in front of a huge platform that echoed the last of their hope into the universe to finally lose, inside an intoxicated house smelling of lost up passion and dreams given up on, standing still before a huge crater of a once respected leader of many, puppeteer would laugh if he was there. Another tyrant rose from where the other died with a bit of their humanity every time, ticking like a clock, running out of being human.

And the soil would always curve under the heavy burden of a dislocated heart, the blurry vision of a merciless fight of not so elegant swords, the vicious grin of a white mask shining over everything else. Blinding. Completely and utterly fascinating.

"Don't you see what's happening here?" The plea of a ruthless killer, "Don't you see history repeating itself?"

The dead man laughed from his grave that was the soothing arms of the remainings of his father, the dead man laughed from his grave that was the cold steel of his heart finally giving up, the rest of the living cried in the dreadful end that neared, and-

"Thus," cried the empty vessels of souls that once kneeled before satan itself, "always to tyrants."

The puppeteer laughed. 

And the universe said I love you.


	2. 1; the fool's paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey Tommy.. Who do you miss the most?”
> 
> Tommy inhaled hope as if it was nicotine, cells on his fingertips shaking in anticipation. A smile crept onto the solidified silence between them, Tommy clinged onto the choking fulfillness of a fool’s paradise. 
> 
> “I think you should leave.”

"Hey, Dream?"

Lava crackled and fumed under the cobblestone bridge they stood on, hues of orange and red illuminating a reflection of hell on the boy's eyes. Tommy could feel his entire body burn with the hotness of nether, hair sticking onto his forehead with sweat, his hands slipped from the railings to his sides weakly. Every inhale smelled like burning, felt like as if every cell of his was on complete fire. His eyes burnt every time they refocused on the changing color of the lava under his feet, it seemed so close yet so far-

He wanted to go, that he knew. Go somewhere. anywhere. There was some place in mind, of course, there was always a sense of home embedded somewhere. But where? 

It was a question that neither Dream nor he knew the answer to. Desires and possibilities were different after all; that, they both knew. 

He felt Dream take a step closer to him as if he was a ghost haunting his presence anywhere and everywhere, not letting him out of sight even for a second. Presence taunting but he didn't interfere when Tommy went mining and building, day after day building a little base on his exile. He planned on keeping it that way; small. He didn't want to call this place home. He didn't want to get used to it. He was going back, at some point, tomorrow or a month later but he was going back after all, he couldn't get too attached to this place. He couldn't get himself to.

Dream stood a few steps behind him, presence comforting yet choking in a way, just like the hotness around them. Thickening in his throat like the words he wanted to speak but there was nothing but burning in his lungs; he didn't have the courage to spit out the words that built up within every empty space in his body. Words of anger, words of spite, words of a lonely man staring into hot lava beneath his feet-

Words of desperation. "Do they miss me?"

At least he was there. Choking or not, threatening or not, it didn't matter that it was because of him that he was exiled in the first place, it didn't matter. At least, at least he was there. 

Unlike everyone else. 

Dream stood behind him, he always did. Stood behind, not to watch his back, not to keep him safe. To keep him alive, maybe, he could never be sure, but not to keep him safe, surely not. To watch over maybe, to tower over, so that Tommy couldn't even dare to run away, so that he wouldn't even dream of going anywhere. Silent as a spirit but Tommy heard his thoughts clear as day inside his head, "Don't you dare." A horrific smile that Tommy knew, knew even if he couldn't see that crept onto his lips, he longed for a caring smile from the same mouth but had been left in the dark countless times. "Don't you dare, Tommy." 

Dream always stood behind him. And yet, somehow, he was always one step further, one step ahead, one step ahead of anything and everything Tommy could ever think of. Ahead of plans Tommy made silent to himself, ahead of secret mails between him and Ranboo, ahead of anything and everything he could ever think of to run away even for a moment. He wouldn't dare. He couldn't even try. 

It was as if they were just playing a script given to them. As if they were actors paid to entertain, paid to act. To act lonely. To act miserable. To act all-mighty and to act oh so vulnerable. 

Oh how Tommy wished it was just an act.

"Does who miss you?"

Tommy's face scrunched up while the air burnt his eyes, his fingers curled tightly against the railings, squeezing the burning metal as if his life depended on it, knuckles going white, an exhale choking his way out of his throat racing a sob; oh how Tommy wished everything to be a script. Pen on paper, actions planned ahead, some Hollywood tragedy on big screen as people sitting to watch gasp like he did when Tubbo looked at him one last time before Dream tugged on him warningly, oh how Tommy wished everything to be a play on the screen. Some fake illusion to wake up from in cold and sweat, curtains open for a final time and all the misery ending while the crowd cheered their film.

"Anyone. L'manburg. Fundy, Quackity, Niki- Tubbo. Anyone, Dream." 

His breath hitched at the thought of everyone moving on with their lives without Tommy, he thought about how Fundy and Quackity protested against tubbo after his deceleration of Tommy's exile, he thought about how they wanted him to stay- or how they said so. How they all decided, together, that they would not exile him and how Tubbo did it anyways, how Tubbo- "Do they miss me?"

The look on Tubbo's eyes while he stared at him.

They couldn’t have given up this easily, right? They still wanted him back.

"Dream, please escort Tommy out of my nation." 

Right?

"You have to remember that i haven't been in L'manburg for much either Tommy, I’ve been spending a lot of my time here with-"

"Just tell me," He couldn't dare to look back at the man's face. "Please. I know you spoke to them the other day so please." 

He couldn't dare to look back at the childish smile on his mask; the smile he once made fun of.

Now it just filled him with terror and familiarity at the same time. A friend but an enemy. Tommy didn't know what to think.

"Niki said she misses you, that she didn't have time to say goodbye before you left since it was so sudden. She also said she'd send a message with Ranboo, I know he's visiting you the most." Dream sighed.

"I don't know how much i can let him visit you. I'm letting you see visitors, we wouldn’t want you to go crazy here all by yourself, but I don't know, Tommy. There would be no reason for you to be exiled if the entirety of L'manburg could come to see you any time they wanted, right?"

"Niki misses me?" The rest of the words slid right past him, he didn't want to listen to anything else, not L'manburg, not visiting policies, nothing. He was missed. Niki missed him. Niki was upset that she couldn't at least say bye. Niki, remembered him. Someone, out there, was missing him. 

"Yeah. She told me directly." 

It didn't matter whether Dream was smiling or not, his mask did. Tommy could... Tommy could trust the smile of a mask. It's not like he had a choice. "She seems to have fun with the flower shop."

"She has a flower shop?" Tommy's eyes suddenly lit up with something, the thought of Niki standing behind a counter; smiling at the residents of the city, cutting flowers to needed length, putting together bouquets for special occasions. Looking happier than ever with no stupid friend trying to blow up a nation or stupid wars that she was never fond of. It wasn't her way to resolve things. Niki preferred agreements better than wars, she had told Tommy right when they were charging for Manburg, hoping for a kill. 

Hope choked up his throat with the thought of his friend's smile, saying welcome to the visitors of her garden but there was a lump he had to swallow on top; being forgotten. The understandable yet disgusting thought of the possibility that they moved on without him. "Yeah. she only recently opened it." 

"Do you think you could ask her to give me some? If you can bring them, of course, and if I'm allowed to have them, I don't want to trouble you or Niki if she doesn't want to.. oh and I can send her uh.. I can send her a picture as payment? I have a lot of frames you know and I paint even though I suck at it cause holy shit Dream this place is so boring-"

When he turned back to face Dream for the first time since they entered through the portal, he saw that the older man swept his mask slightly to the side, a small scar on his cheek visible with a smile that unusually didn't pierce his skin sharply. To his surprise, the smile looked genuine than anything, he couldn't really read into the evilness of the stretch of lips this time like he's used to; it looked warm.

"If I'm allowed to, of course. Sorry for getting excited suddenly" 

His gaze stuck at the tilt of his mouth, it looked brotherly even, Tommy thought before realizing with horror that the smile doesn't bring him to the utter madness that is loneliness like it usually does. 

"I can't promise, Tommy, although I'm sure she will be more than happy to make you a bouquet. I'll think about it, okay?" 

Tommy nodded, hands leaving the boiling safety railings that they put together a couple of days ago; Dream thought nether was dangerous as it already was and putting a huge bridge on it didn't help either. so, he came up with this great idea of putting metal safety railings in the middle of hell that definitely didn't boil off Tommy's skin whenever he touched them. Though Dream was content with their newest build, watching the railings as if they were something to be proud of. Maybe they made him feel safe. They certainly did not make Tommy feel safe. 

He focused back on what they were initially talking about, "And the others?" 

"They haven't been around much, they're planning something that I don't know of yet."

Dream's smile didn't even twitch, yet Tommy was able to watch it go from the sincere brotherly smile to the one he had on his face watching him getting exiled. He was able to pinpoint the exact moment the aura around him turned into something much more sinister than the unknowing man he advertised himself as, Tommy's stomach twisted with it. A wave of lava rose behind the bridge, Dream's mask reflecting the orange shimmer, the smile shining with some evil Tommy didn't know how to name yet. It was sickening. 

It was fascinating. 

"You don't know yet?"

"Tommy, Tommy," his voice had an amused undertone that made Tommy shiver despite all the warmth purging in his bones, "You never learn, do you?" A hand rose to his head and Tommy didn't even flinch, -even though he probably should have- spending most of his days in exile with Dream both made him more scared of the man and forced him to learn to trust his ways of operating everything in the way he always does. 

Fingers collided with his dirty locks, Tommy could feel the rough surface of his fingerless combat gloves on his scalp, long fingernails slowly caressing their way out of tangled hair. It could even be considered a hundred percent caring if it was paired with five second ago's smile. But right now, it just clogged up Tommy's entire system with undefined horror. 

"It's not like they can keep secrets from me, you do know better don't you?" 

The warm fingers ruffled around for a second and it was gone in a second like it came, Tommy found himself fond of the first affectionate physical contact with someone else in a very long time. He also found himself wondering if Dream could hug like Tubbo did but the thought was discarded as soon as it came.

"So they're just.. not around?"

"Well," Dream turned away from the path to L'manburg but instead to the portal leading to Tommy's tent, indicating that their daily visit to the nether was coming to an end, "They're not around when I am. They avoid talking to me." Tommy could hear the subtle smile in his voice and followed him mindlessly as he skipped on the cobblestone bridge, "Heck, they even avoid seeing me."

If Tommy didn't know Dream -he liked to believe that he actually did- he would've thought that he almost sounded hurt. 

Tommy wondered what exactly was wrong with Dream that they hated him so much back then. Sure, he took his discs and maybe caused a war or two.. But he was his only friend now, with absolutely no one visiting him during the past few weeks. Even if he wasn't a good guy, he was company. And Tommy was glad that he at least had the company of some man. "So, you're certain that you're gonna learn about their plans?"

"I'll eventually hear."

His mask was completely off of his face by now, walking backwards on the bridge to face Tommy while talking, it wasn't the greatest of decisions when you were surrounded by ounces of lava. Sweat glistened on his face as a grin scrunched his lips upwards, some emotion Tommy couldn't really name but it looked relaxed other than anything.

He looked like he enjoyed himself, finally not in a sinister way, not by tormenting people. He looked like he enjoyed talking to Tommy, walking backwards on a bridge that they had built together the first week of his exile, Tommy fresh out of L’manburg. He was hopeful then. He’d like to believe that he still was, but the hope felt so fake that he wanted to throw up into the nearest pit and slap himself in the face for even thinking about hoping for anything.

Maybe Dream hoped for something. Maybe that was the smile of a hopeful man.

"Do you not want me to learn?"

Tommy shrugged, picking his pace, there was something in Dream's face that he couldn't identify. Running his hands through his unkempt hair and grinning teasingly, he reminded him of someone he couldn't quite yet name. 

"I just want everyone safe," the soft, desperate whisper clouded by worry floated above the bridge to the mountains of red stone. 

"So do I." 

He looked young, when he grinned like that. He looked like the most careless man in the entire world, like he didn't have anything bugging him. He looked young in the creases of the battle scars framing his lips, he looked young in the tired eyes excitedly jumping with the lava boiling around them. He looked young in a way that Tommy couldn't really pour into words, as if the whole world stopped just for him, as if he carried an entire galaxy of worries beneath his eyelids but managed to keep them there.

Tommy wished that Dream would look young more often.

Dream didn't really put his mask down while they were back in L'manburg. It wasn't completely on for the most part, usually tilted so he could breathe or see better, sometimes just to show a sinister look, sometimes just because he was suffocating under it. But he rarely ever put the entire mask down like he did right then, going through the portal with a fond smile on his lips that Tommy didn't know the reasoning behind. He rarely ever put his entire face on display.

It was somehow refreshing, seeing an actual face rather than a crooked smile of a ruthless leader. It was refreshing to see him with his hair swept back, cheeks glowing pink in the suffocating nether weather, nose scrunching with the dusty portal particles, nice to see a human rather than a killing machine. It felt like a break.

A break for Tommy to remind himself that Dream could be a friend. A break for Dream to remember that it's okay to be a friend sometimes.

"What do you wanna do now?"

Tommy wondered what he hid behind his mask all the time. What he was balancing his life between, like a dagger swinging off of his fingers. Tommy wondered what was meant to stay behind the mask and what had the right to see the sunshine of fantasy life, what secrets were to spill out if he would go on for a day without it. 

He wondered if he ever smiled like the most careless man in existence behind his mask. If he did, maybe people would not be so afraid of their deaths if he kept the mask away from his face.

"I actually have stuff to do at L'manburg later so I can't stay for that long."

"Oh."

They both knew what the 'Oh' meant. 'Oh, I thought you'd stay' or 'Oh, I was hoping for you to hang around more' or 'Oh, please don't do anything to my friends'. It was a plea of information but it felt like trying to pull words out of a mute man. an 'Oh' of silent demand and hope, an 'Oh' of thousands of unspoken sentences of wishes. There was definitely something lumping in the bottom of his throat with the silent syllable but mostly, it was 'Oh-

"Can I come with you this time?"

The smile was still there, to his surprise, when he finally raised his gaze from his beaten up hand-me-down sneakers to the warm green glisten of Dream's eyes looking down on him. He had expected to see his eyes to slowly turn into crescents in the usual mocking pity that he loved to show whenever as if Tommy is a stray animal needing the care of him; however he was still pleasantly greeted with the expression that felt more like a dream than Dream himself.

And Tommy, the stupid naive boy he is, let himself hope for the second time today. It bloomed in the pit of his stomach as a beautifully sickening warmth as it always did and reached all the way up to his throat to choke him out of his words. It was awfully similar to how Wilbur used to describe falling in love, a pit of butterflies fluttering inside him, refusing to listen to the repeated mistakes of the carcasses of the same butterflies laying deep down before his feet.

Hope was extremely dangerous to fall in love with, Wilbur had warned him. “It’s addicting, Tommy. Once you get addicted to hope, all you get in life is a bunch of disappointment.”

But he couldn’t help it, Wilbur knew by then too. Knew from the glistening stars that laid deep in his irises back when he was a toddler, running around with the makeshift wooden sword; listening to the Greek tales that Techno put him to sleep to wasted no time to make the little boy his own Greek hero of his own heroic story. Hope was more prominent in Tommy than it ever was in anybody, Wilbur knew, knew by the way he looked at him while talking about the evolution, poor boy yearned for freedom. Poor boy yearned for hope. Poor boy, yearned for the hope that laid within freedom, oh so delicate, oh so wonderful.

Wilbur knew by the time that they first declared war against Dream, Tommy was eyelashes deep in love with hope, breathing it in like it was nicotine. Hope was a dangerous drug, Wilbur had warned him. Tommy had no doubt.

"You know better than me that you can't, Tommy.." 

Hope was a dangerous drug. It caught you by the heart and swung you around like a useless pawn, making you fight the merciless enemies that was life and wearing you out until the last drop of your precious blood; until there was nothing left but your stupid vessel of a body and a pitiful mockery of a golden feather laying inside your veins. It took you by the hand to take you to the ice cream shop as a five year old and left you there in one fine summer evening, left until you almost forgot the way back home only to show up again hours later, tears already dried, and it led you back home, back to itself.

A sorrowful walk of shame, right into its arms again.

“I thought I’d try my chance anyways,” he forced a smile. “Will I ever be able to?”

“You should stop asking questions that you know the answer to.”

Dream refrained from looking back at the boy, eyes fixed on the little white guest tent that they had built a couple of days ago, Tommy saying he should call it his own tent as he was the only person that bothered to show up to visit him anyways. Despite all that Dream never changed the color of the sleeping mat to anything he preferred and made sure he never left any belongings behind in the chests that they hardly fit next to the bedding. He also had removed the sign that read ‘Dream’s tent’ secretly, putting it in a random chest in Tommy’s storage room.

He never intended to give Tommy this much friendship to begin with. Of course at first he was visiting almost daily, making sure the exiled boy wasn’t doing anything funny to even try to run away. Tommy was still hot headed back then, throwing a fuss when Dream wanted him to drop his armor daily, cursing him off whenever he refused to take Tommy back to ‘his home’.

“This is your home now,” he had said, shattered pieces of childish hope pierced their way from Tommy’s lungs as Dream breathed them in unknowingly.

He took the books he had left in the chest before they went in the nether, shoving them into his old backpack. Tommy watched him take everything with him as if he was never returning again, he feared that sometimes. The way he looked at him as he left every time, putting his hood back on, ruffling his hair bittersweetly even if they had argues that day, waving bye at Tommy even when he didn’t get it returned, putting everything, big or small in his bag and folding the covers on his bedding neatly. It was always as if he wasn’t planning on coming back, a goodbye that’s gonna last forever.

When did Tommy become this scared of Dream leaving?

“You’ll be back tomorrow, right? We haven’t finished the supply room and I really want to find a friend for the mushroom cow.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t abandon our plans, would I?”

Tommy smiled. Dream could be a friend, right? They got along quite well as long as Tommy did as he said, as long as he dropped his armor in the pit, as long as he didn’t try to run away like he did at the beginning- why would he do that? He was so stupid to think that it was Dream’s fault to get him exiled, god, he was so naive. He’d been so so stupid, to think that it was Dream’s fault that he was exiled. It was entirely his fault. Entirely his fault that he was all alone now, watching Dream put his mask back on, hoodie zipped up, ready to go. It was his fault that he wasn’t with his friends right now. It was all his fault.

But Dream could forgive him, and everyone else too, they could forgive him and they could be friends again, right? He could befriend Dream. They were fine as long as Tommy didn’t make Dream angry, it was fine as long as he complied and he could comply, couldn’t he? He could comply. He would comply, if that was what it would take for them to be friends.

And then maybe, just maybe, Dream would let him go back. Friends. Friends wouldn’t want to see each other suffer, right? Dream would eventually let him go back to L’manburg, to his home, his nation, his friends. Tubbo. Dream wasn’t ruthless. He would most definitely let him go back, if Tommy complied.

“Hey Tommy.. Who do you miss the most?”

Tommy inhaled hope as if it was nicotine, cells on his fingertips shaking in anticipation. A smile crept onto the solidified silence between them, Tommy clinged onto the choking fulfillness of a fool’s paradise. 

“I think you should leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmm, I don't know how often I'll be able to update but I won't let anyone hanging for too long, promise :)) hope you enjoy, and happy valentines day I guess


	3. 2; brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You son of a bitch, you taught me how to hope for a future and then took everything I ever thought I had.”
> 
> Wilbur hugged him tighter, arms going through bone and muscle like he was nothing. Like he wasn’t anything ever. Like he never actually hugged him ever in his life before, so foreign, so cold as Tommy clinged onto the nothingness of Wilbur’s once warm and soft yellow sweater.
> 
> “I can’t even fucking hug you.”

Wilbur tended to forget a lot of things. 

Little things, he’d like to believe; small stuff here and there, apparently not as important as his mind was determined to erase them from memory. To lock the door to his library when he went out to go to his home for the night for example, or the recipe of Niki’s banana bread that he asked for two weeks ago, realizing that he had long forgotten about it by the time he found an old apron from Tubbo and got to actually baking. He tended to forget a lot of things, him and his silly old memory, but he’d like to believe that his mind wouldn’t let him forget about important stuff.

It wasn’t to his pleasure to realize how wrong he was. 

It wasn’t very apparent blocks of emptiness that the attempt of remembering his past brang to the table, it wasn’t the obvious fact that he couldn’t remember most things from his young adult years, let alone childhood. He tried to think not much of it, maybe he had forgotten about them because they’re fairly insignificant, or maybe there was nothing to remember at all. Maybe the only life changing event in his entire lifetime was to die- quite literally. Maybe his poor mind couldn’t find anything to recall from the past simply because there was nothing to take into accountability.

He’d like to believe that he wouldn’t forget things like the birth of his younger brother, even if he was only eight at the time. He’d like to believe that he wouldn’t forget things like his father teaching him how to hunt, he’d like to believe that he wouldn’t forget about how he would braid the long silky hair of his twin brother before they went to quests together.

He’d like to believe that he wouldn’t forget about losing the election of his own country. He’d very much like to believe that he wouldn’t forget about running away from dozens of arrows raining on them while he ran away with his little brother, exiled.

Exile. He’d like to believe that it never had happened.

The thing is, Wilbur was told many tales about what happened after they declared independence, signing that old moldy book that Dream handed him as if he were infected, with a disgusted yet proud face that he could easily pick up from the flood that were his memories. He remembered the smile on Tommy’s face as they all signed the paper that indicated the victory of a war and the long lost independence that they all longed for with each blood flow in their veins. He remembered putting a hand on Fundy’s shoulder, his son, his son’s shoulder, as his eyes glowed with the spark of something unnamed.

He remembered the pride of giving his son a promised country. He remembered the pride of being the leader of such a wonderful bunch of people, hope behind their eyelids every time they closed their eyes, determination that he once found funny solidified in front of their eyes in the glistening shades of their flag, waving pridefully under the blinding sunrise.

Wilbur was told many stories about what has happened after they finally signed that shitty paper and finished building their glorious walls, many stories that his mind deceived in its own way to the point where reality and blinded desire didn’t hold any difference. Many stories of a broken man, remains of a monster that came completely unannounced -or they liked to think so- that he refused to put his face on its blank face, his voice to its venomous words, his hands to its fists and his feet to its fall.

“I can’t come with you Tommy, rain makes me melt!”

He smiled to the almost inaudible groan that came from the boy far away, working on repairing a hole in his tent as he waited for the rain to pass in the muddy dirt house that he built on Tommy’s first day in exile. The thunderstorm of last night had nearly flew away the poor cheap material of Tommy’s tent and he was busy trying to fix it under the rain that came unstopped, he had access cloth to fix up the holes and the tears but the rain was making it impossible for the adhesive to stick and dry completely.

Not that Wilbur would know. It was what he understood from the loud yells coming from the younger, filtered from all the curse words, of course.

Tommy had asked him for help, to hold something over him so that he could wait and hold the pieces of clothes together until the glue had the tiniest bit of chance to dry. It was obvious that he was exhausted beyond words, dark circles framing his young eyes beclouded by something much more stronger than not being able to repair his tent. Wilbur had watched him go from cursing at every word spoken to him by anyone to this compliant yet aggressive boy, as if he had accepted his unwritten fate already.

Wilbur didn’t believe in faith. Wilbur liked the idea of not floating aimlessly, not having a straight line ahead of you that you have to live through.

“Holy shit, you’re so useless,” Tommy mumbled to himself, but he looked like he’d given up on the thought that his tent was repairable under any condition. He looked up to where Wilbur stood, mud constantly dropping from the ceiling and going right through him like he was never there from the start. He couldn’t see as Tommy sighed and cursed to himself in defeat but he could imagine it happening when Tommy finally dropped the wet, pathetic cloth from his hands and jogged to the even more pathetic dirt house. 

“I fucking hate this place.”

Wilbur nodded apologetically, as if him getting exiled was his fault. Tommy looked through him with empty eyes, searching for something that Wilbur clearly lacked. He didn’t know what exactly Tommy missed so much about him that he didn’t have right now, he didn’t think he went through such a big change when he died and came back from the emptiness that was the pathetic afterlife that he once read in a very old book. It was nothing like he imagined, there were no fruit trees surrounding the sight of sky, no rivers of honey or gold, no servants that you could request anything from.

Just plain, old emptiness that drilled into your skull and left a stinging ringing in your ears; a constant reminder of decaying life that once bloomed in his lungs.

“Dream could at least give me a fucking house to live in..” Tommy looked more irritated than usual, Wilbur wanted to swipe the dirty matted hair that fell in a wet pile on his forehead away from his eyes, he couldn’t remember quite right but if they were truly brothers he must have done something similar at some point in their lives. When he finally pushed his hair away from his face and looked up to look at Wilbur instead of just seeing him, Wilbur could see the apparent disappointment radiating from his eyelids. 

“I mean I could make one but he would just make me put it in a fucking hole or something.”

Wilbur tended to forget a lot of things. He’d still like to believe that he was at least a good brother.

“I hate this place, god, I truly hate this place all.” he kicked a pile of mud in rage, Wilbur could see the red that was flashing before the younger’s eyes, “I fucking hate being exiled, I fucking hate this stupid place, I hate this dirt house, I hate this fucking armor-” Harsh iron fell silent on the wet ground. Wilbur watched as the boy freed himself of the straps of any armor that was left on him, metal clanging on top of each other with a sickly noise that scratched Wilbur’s ears.

“I hate being away. I hate not being at home.”

“But this is home.”

Tommy looked at Wilbur as if he was insane.

Wilbur hoped that if nothing, he was a good brother

The look on Tommy’s face was unbearable. The raise of his eyebrows, the clench in his jaw, the way his nails stabbed into his palms with the words leaving his mouth. Unbearable. Wilbur didn’t know what was wrong about what he just said. He couldn’t understand what impact his words held exactly to make Tommy look like he was struck by lightning.

“What?”

He hoped that he read his little brother bedtime stories until he was ten, he hoped that he built him a tiny treehouse out in the woods of their childhood house, he hoped that he gave him piggyback rides when he fell and hurt his knees. Wilbur hoped that he held his brother’s hand tight when he cried, he hoped that he managed to fulfil any promise that he possibly made, pinky fingers colliding, thumbs swiping half dried tears away, a tiny hand held tight in a bigger fist. Wilbur hoped that whatever stupid pinky promise he made came true.

“Isn’t this home, Tommy?”

He hoped that he didn’t make a stupid fucking promise of never leaving his side. He hoped that he never promised about never dying. He hoped that he was insightful enough to see all the wars that roamed his mind would be the end of him long before he would turn thirty. He hoped he wasn’t a fool to promise his little brother of the age ten, that he would, no matter what, despite everything -as a thunderstorm growled outside and the said ten year old child scrambled away in painful fear- he would be there until the end of time.

He hoped that he never made promises of infinity, not so many years later to his own son, smiling at his frame- grimacing? He couldn’t tell. He hoped that he didn’t brush his hair out of his face and tickled his little ears perking up as the boy giggled, he hoped that he never cradled him in his arms at nights of long cries and despair, photographs laying around as if a certain woman never left; he hoped that he never hushed soft promises of forever into his poor son’s ears at nights like that, endless and awfully wet by tears never leaving his face.

He hoped he never promised an eternity of adventure and togetherness to his twin brother at the horrible age of nine; the age to dream, hope and wait for a forever looking growing up. He hoped that they never made wooden swords together, fighting imaginary dragons out of the tales of their dad, promising to each other deep into the scuffy night that they shared in two twin sized mattresses; he hoped, oh he hoped so deeply that he never promised that they would always fight back to back putting little braids into his twin’s silky hair.

“You call this shithole home?”

He remembered his dad running his fingers through his hair, sleepless nights of nightmares and demons of the dark, whispering lies of the classic ‘home is wherever family is’.

What absolute bullshit.

“Well, Dream said this is your home now didn’t he? This your new home.”

Tommy was looking at him as if he was completely someone else, as if he wasn’t his brother after all. His eyes carried the rage of something yet to be named, frustration framing the silver linings of his eyelashes, not even shuffling away as mud dripped on his cheek and back to the floor. “It’s not like you have a choice Tommy,” Wilbur tried to smile, for some reason he didn’t really want to this time. It felt tiring. “This is your home now, and you have me with you, you know. Family.”

It didn’t take long for the smile to turn into a painful scrunched up grimace, “Home is where family is.”

“What the absolute fuck are you talking about.”

Wilbur hoped that he taught Tommy how to read. Wilbur hoped that he helped Techno heal his injuries. Wilbur hoped that he went fishing with Fundy. Wilbur hoped that he made his dad proud.

“Did I finally make you proud, Pa?”

Cheers of victory and the burning scent of hope boiling up in his lungs, his own son pulling the flag up into the sky for the first time, blackstone walls standing in glory, Tommy yelling incoherent things between curses to Dream jumping on Tubbo’s shoulders, Niki smiling at the sky with disheveled hair and closed eyes, Tubbo singing something foreign at the top of his lungs.

L’manburg.

“The thing that I built this nation for doesn’t exist anymore-”

People cheering for me.

“You’re acting like a moron, Wilbur!”

The Revolution. 

“Am I a villain, in this story?”

“You call this home? You call this fucking home, Wilbur?”

Winning the election.

“My first decree, as the president of L’manburg-”

“You call this home? Home is back there, you fucking idiot, we left home back in L’manburg.”

A ravine.

“We’ve spoken that language, in the pit.”

“This all your fucking fault. This, everything,” maybe Wilbur wasn’t the best brother in the world, “It’s all your fucking fault.”

The taste of salt.

“You’re my son!”

Tunnels.

“Wilbur said he wasn’t gonna hurt me!”

“You made Tubbo president before you went and blew up everything on us because you knew he couldn’t handle it Wilbur. You fucking knew he would break under all the pressure, you knew that we would be fucked the minute you were gone. This, you fucked everything up.”

“Wilbur promise me that we will come out of this fight alive. Promise me that we will win this war. Please.”

The worries of a sixteen year old soldier. 

The possibility of death hanging between the thick air between them like the swinging feet of a man on a distant tree, Wilbur hated himself for bringing him into this. Hated himself for not being able to leave him at home, miles and miles away, safe from whatever the fuck he was doing right now. Safe from this masked bastard, safe from this sinful land, safe from the swords and the arrows and the crossbows. Away from the armor that looked so, so foreign on him, so foreign on his baby brother, the lines of war already creased on his forehead, eyes blurred by the smoke of the dynamites. 

It was his fault after all. War. The need for independence. The hunger of hope, already permanent on Tommy’s eyes, like a copy of his own.

Phil always told him that Techno’s eyes had the same hunger for blood as himself. Maybe you couldn’t have hope without shedding some blood after all.

“Everything will be okay, Tommy. I promise,” the worry of an infinite death solidified into mist and dust in front of them, burning Wilbur’s way into his lungs. He tried his best to smile but it smelled an awful lot like tears, salty and throat burning, “Would I ever lie to you?”

“Did you seriously plan for all this to happen? Did you plan for us to suffer? Me, to suffer? Did you seriously think of all the possibilities to continue fucking my life up after you’re dead, like that wasn’t enough?”

Tommy’s grip on his own shirt was tight enough to almost rip the fabric apart, Wilbur had no idea of how is face looked like right now but looking at Tommy and his unsoftening expression was enough to make an educated guess about the tears that lingered on his eyelashes although he couldn’t feel them. He could see the reflection of the L’manburg flag in the younger’s irises, a reflection of good days, Tommy asking him question after question about how they were going to fight Dream, Niki stitching up the flag, Fundy handing him his clean new uniform the day before the big war. 

Good days. War days.

“I never wanted you to hurt.”

A large explosion.

“There was a saying Phil, by a traitor-”

“Well shit then, Wilbur because the moment you give me everything I could have ever asked for, you take them all away. My dad doesn’t give two shits about me and you take care of me but then you also turn all muder and genocide, you promise me freedom and we get it but immediately after we are exiled, we make a plan to get it all back but then you have to go out of your way and just- ”

The van.

“Then we followed Wilbur and he started L’manburg..”

“Finally everything is over and I think to myself, everything is perfect, everything is perfect and I will get to enjoy this with my best friend as my president and my hero, my brother at my side and you just go and fuck everything up again. The moment I believe that shit will be okay from now on my own fucking brother goes out of his way to blow up the only thing that was left to believe in and then my own dad just goes and- and just-”

Philza stabbing me to death.

“Kill me, Phil.”

“And you just fucking die, Wilbur. You just die, in front of my two eyes.” 

Air in my lungs.

“It was never meant to be.”

See, Wilbur tended to forget a lot of things. In fact he couldn’t even remember that he has forgotten something most of the time, so it wasn’t really a problem. You couldn’t grief things that you erased from memory.

“Look at what I made, Wilbur!”

A crumpled piece of paper, a boy with blond hair and a sinister smile standing next to a brunette; he had drawn them the same height. At the top, there was the somewhat illegible childish handwriting of six year old Tommy, it read ‘my hero’.

You couldn’t grief your baby brother, if you didn’t remember him.

“I watched you turn to this crazy psycho in front day by day, how you stopped laughing at Tubbo’s dumb jokes, how you’d only smile whenver you talked about your fucking villain bulcrap, how you wouldn’t ever listen to me even though I literally pleaded.”

“Then let's be the bad guys, Tommy.”

Freezing wind blew inside the narrow tunnels of the deep, deep ravine, chills making themselves home inside his old, fragile bones, aged by the sheer insanity that came by one warm afternoon and never really bothered to leave. Wilbur didn’t complain. Everyone was a little bit insane, especially the ones that were thrown out of the country that they built from their very own blood and flesh, brick by brick. Especially those ones, who were betrayed by the crowd of nothing but traitors, smiling at their new tyrant.

“I watched your frame shrink because you wouldn’t eat, I watched you yell at Fundy because he was just saying that he didn’t wanted to lose you this way, I watched you turn a cold shoulder on Niki just because she told you that you were being irrational, that you were acting different.”

“Can you just shut up for a fucking second Fundy? I’m thinking and you’re just interrupting, go outside and run after some butterflies or some shit.”

A leader didn’t have time to fix the broken in children’s voices. They didn’t promise of immortality, they never promised of such dumb thing. Revolution, rebellion, plunder weren’t the words of a dad who could afford to take his son to the woods to talk about fairy tales. Maybe he was that father, once in a lifetime, years ago when his hands were smaller and his mother was around, once when he would twitch his ears to his dad coming home in the evenings and when Wilbur could carry him in his arms.

He was too old for that now. Wilbur couldn’t realize that he was also too young to fight in a war.

“I watched you laugh when you made me fight Techno in that pit. I saw you yelling our names like a fucking lunatic, your own two brothers fighting a dumb chicken fight because universe and language and shit. You were enjoying it. You enjoyed watching us fight.”

He couldn’t help the thrill that passed through his entire body, seeing Tommy staring at Techno with blood glazed eyes, the slight but apparent hesitancy in Techno’s posture, weighing his axe in his hand nervously. It never once crossed his mind that it was his own two brothers fighting to almost death in the pit, cheering names one after another, dangerous fireworks of unexplained excitement that laid in his fingertips slowly grazing over the hard rock floor.

Blood running down Tommy’s nose. It never once occurred to him that if this was the sight two months ago, he would be doubled up over him in pure concern.

Life wasn’t a game of ‘two month ago’s, or so Wilbur liked to believe on sleepless nights of deep regret, lining his forehead with cobwebs of self doubt.

“I saw you, Wilbur. I saw you crying at night for a savior, for someone, for Phil, Sandy, someone. I saw you screaming at Techno’s face because he refused to help you take over the fucking world. I saw you. I saw you like you did see me, all the time, before you went mad.”

Tommy looked at him if he was an open book, Wilbur felt naked. Being stripped down to your core and down by your own brother’s confessions of forgotten disappointments were different than putting all your mental baggage on stupid pieces of blue dye that he couldn’t wash away from his fingers no matter how hard he tried.

“It’s all your fault. I want you to know that, Wilbur.”

Wilbur liked to think that he was a good brother. A good son. A good father. A good friend. Wilbur hoped to be what alive him couldn’t fucking manage to do, not fuck things up for once.

Wilbur liked to believe that he was a good brother, that he sang Tommy old lullabies of ancient languages on stormy nights of thunder, carving him a worn out sword out of old wood laying around. He liked to believe that he brushed Techno’s hair through the infamous voices surrounding any coherent thought in his head, shushing the sobs of unfamiliarity away, raspy voice singing the same lullaby that was sung to Tommy a week ago.

Wilbur liked to believe that he was a good son, taking care of the youngest and having good morals of raising himself on his own, shedding the skin of deers that his father brought home without any complaint and sharpening his double edged swords in moonlight. Never asking questions after a certain age, never complaining, smiling back to apologetic smiles while he stitched an almost fallen finger back to his toughened hand.

Wilbur liked to believe that he was a good father himself, learning from his own’s mistakes, teaching Fundy how to hunt for himself, praising him for the littlest of achievements, never letting him see his grief over his mother’s death and always smiling through the questions of where his mother had gone. Lying to keep him safe, lying to keep himself sane, hugging his tiny body against his on nights that could have been the breaking point but still smiling.

Wilbur liked to believe that he was a good friend; to Niki when she was tired of constant wars that he dragged everyone behind him, listening to endless complaints of just wanting to live a simple life, apologetic smiles. To Eret, once. Before. To Tubbo, when Tommy was too much and the fear of death just layed on the table like a dead pig from yesterday’s dinner, pats on the back and the looks of a knowing brother, a caring leader.

“I want you to know that everything is your fault, I’m fucking tired of sugarcoating it.”

Wilbur tended to forget a lot of things. Like where his clean laundry went after he washed and hung them to dry, like where he put a certain book in his library, like where he left his coat after having dinner with Tommy on exile. Wilbur tended to forget a lot of little things like where his wedding ring went or the first painting that little Fundy had gifted him, the first ever paper crown that they made for Techno when Tommy wasn’t even born, where Phil’s old dagger carved in beautiful patterns was. The words to the L’manburg anthem. His presidential speech. Tommy’s birthday.

Wilbur tended to forget little things like that.

The fact that he died, right before every citizen of his nation’s eyes.

“You taught me to write, to play music, to defend myself, to fight. You taught me how to hold a sword and how to shoot arrows, you taught me how to put on armor, how to go into war.”

Trembling voice travelled across the room silently and went through the walls right away, just like how Wilbur’s arms never had a weight around Tommy as he tried to wrap his arms around his brother, tight.

“You son of a bitch, you taught me how to hope for a future and then took everything I ever thought I had.”

Wilbur hugged him tighter, arms going through bone and muscle like he was nothing. Like he wasn’t anything ever. Like he never actually hugged him ever in his life before, so foreign, so cold as Tommy clinged onto the nothingness of Wilbur’s once warm and soft yellow sweater.

“I can’t even fucking hug you.”

Tommy’s arms curled around where Wilbur should’ve been, where he should’ve stood, muscle and flesh and bone, hair damp and smelling of rain, coat rotting away slowly with the wetness, hands warm and worn up, tough palms, bruised fingertips as they squeezed Tommy’s back on rare moments of intimacy that they used to share.

Seems like there was nothing left of Wilbur, but the undying scent of blood.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You’ll come out alive, Tommy. We all will.”

Only if he could’ve been a better brother.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go with the second chapter, im mostly writing this fic for myself as i dont think it will reach a big audience but im very content doing so. man, i really enjoy writing this fic, hope you enjoy as well :)

**Author's Note:**

> oh man oh man, I've been working on this for the longest time!! I'm really content with it myself, I hope you all like it, enjoy the angst..


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